The Buried Circle - Jenni Mills [163]
‘I want rid of it,’ I said. ‘You know what I mean. You can do it, can’t you? I can’t go on with this.’
‘Can’t be done,’ he said. ‘You’re too late, sweetheart. Too risky now–we could kill you as well as the baby. Should’ve come to me a month or more ago, if that’s what you were after.’
I closed the door of the little room in the house on Drove Road, kicked off my spiteful shoes and hung my coat on the hook, on top of the hanger with my best polka-dot dress. I’d not be going dancing for a while. I wondered what people did, faced with this. I’d been so sure Cabbage, or someone like him, would help. There was the place in Liverpool, and no doubt somewhere like it closer. But what was I to tell people? They’d guess, wouldn’t they? And how soon would it be obvious if I didn’t vanish? Despair near sank me. Outside, everyday life on Drove Road continued, men bicycling home from work at the railway yards, women walking back from the aircraft factory. The early August heat was killing. The scent of gravy made with browning stole through the house as my landlady prepared another meatless supper. Grief for Mam, pushed so deep down, swelled up and burst like a great bubble in my chest. I lay face down on the bed, the scratchy cotton prickling my hot face, clawing at handfuls of the material to keep the tears inside, and the baby too, wishing these things could be swallowed back into the body and never let out to shame me.
A knock at the door. ‘Frances? You in there? Tea’s nearly done.’ I wiped my eyes on the maroon bedspread. ‘Having a lie-down.’ ‘Thought I heard you come in. Did you see the letter on the hall table?’
‘Be down in a jiff after I’ve had a wash.’
Maybe the letter was from Davey. There’d been nothing since the picnic at Windmill Hill. I’d tried ringing the base after Mam died, but the phone was answered by a man who told me Davey’s squadron were ‘operational’: he’d leave a message. He’d sounded drunk, slurring his words, but maybe that was because he was posh. Colerne wasn’t that far and even if Davey couldn’t wangle a pass surely he could’ve sent a note. I felt angry with him. He’d took it hard, I knew, but he’d come through, wouldn’t he? Like you had to?
Didn’t understand how thin Davey’d been stretched already.
I stood up, my legs tingling when my feet hit the floor. My feet were puffy; now my shoes wouldn’t go back on. I forced on slippers and padded downstairs.
It wasn’t from Davey. The address on the envelope was typed, on a machine I’d used often enough to recognize its crooked Rs and squashed-up ds. I ripped it open eagerly.
My dearest Heartbreaker,
Damnably late to be saying this, but I have been away in London and Sorel-Taylour has only just informed me of your sad bereavement. It is thirty-five years since the death of my own mother (and nearly forty-five since my father died) but I feel her loss as keenly today as I ever did. I am sorry to hear of your mother’s death; though I did not know her well, she must have been a fine woman to instil in her daughter the truth and talent and feeling that is yours.
I regret I cannot help with the matter of a home for your father. The cottage in Manor Drive is promised to a friend. But please do call in at the Manor when you are next passing by. I am hoping to resume my entertainments for airmen, and you would be a welcome adornment to our tea parties.
Sincerely,
A.K.
PS: Talking of the Brylcreem Brigade, I hear
I